Concert Programme

FOR THE FALLEN MUSIC AND POETRY OF THE GREAT WAR Pegasus Choir Matthew Altham Director Graham Wood Organ Robin Whitehead & Ann Rachlin Readers Saturday, 5 July 2014, 7.30pm St Thomas the Martyr Church, Winchelsea Programme £1 Programme This programme has been conceived as a continuous sequence of readings and music. We therefore ask that you hold your applause until the end of each half of the concert. Thank you. Nunc Dimittis Gustav Holst (1874–1934) The Guns Anon. Nachtlied Max Reger (1873–1916) Trois beaux oiseaux du Paradis Maurice Ravel (1875–1937) Memories Ted Streeton (1908–2000) A Short Requiem Walford Davies (1869–1941) 1. Salvator Mundi 6. Audi vocem 2. De profundis clamavi 7. Hymn 3. Reqieum aeternam I 8. Gloria Patri 4. Levavi oculos 9. Vox ultima crucis 5. Requiem aeternam II In Memoriam Ewart Alan Macintosh (1893–1917) For lo, I raise up Charles Villiers Stanford (1852–1924) INTERVAL Blagoslovi dushe moya gospoda Sergei Rachmaninov (1873–1943) Nyne otpushchaeshi Sergei Rachmaninov Selections from correspondence Vera Brittain (1893–1970) Roland Leighton (1895–1915) Psalm 23 Ivor Gurney (1890–1937) Since I Believe in God the Ivor Gurney Father Almighty For the Fallen Douglas Guest (1916–1996) To Music George Dyson (1883–1964) Expectans expectavi Charles Wood (1866–1926) Letter in the event of my death Winston Churchill (1874–1965) Ich bin der Welt abhanden Gustav Mahler (1860–1911) gekommen arr. Clytus Gottwald Composers and the Great War by Samir Savant The First World War began in the late summer of 1914, and in this centenary year Pegasus is joining the commemorations of the millions who died. The war involved soldiers from across the world, but its effects were felt most keenly in Europe, where old empires crumbled, monarchies were toppled and new countries were born. It is easy sometimes to overlook the personal and human cost of war, and in conceiving this programme of readings and music I have been inspired by the individual stories of the artists involved, including composers from five countries most affected by the conflict. Their music attests to the enduring power of a shattering experience shared by so many individuals and families a century ago. My own connection to the war is not familial, but it is personal: every time I enter the Royal College of Music, where I work, I see the name of George Butterworth on the war memorial in our outer hall. Butterworth was one of the most promising British composers of his generation and was killed in 1916 during the Battle of the Somme. He was 31 years old. His name is a reminder of so many lives cut short, including within the world of the arts. Gustav Holst wanted to enlist at the outbreak of the war and was frustrated to be found unfit for military service. He taught and composed during the war, completing the orchestral suite The Planets, the first movement of which is a vivid evocation of “Mars, the Bringer of War”. Holst’s friends the composers George Butterworth and Cecil Coles, whom he had got to know at the Royal College of Music, were among those killed in action. In 1918 Holst finally had the chance to contribute to the war effort, eagerly volunteering for the music section of the YMCA’s education department, to work with British troops stationed in Salonica awaiting demobilisation. For the purpose, Holst changed his name from “von Holst” to “Holst”, fearing that it looked too German to be acceptable in such a role. He returned to Britain in the summer of 1919. Holst’s unaccompanied Nunc dimittis dates from 1915 and was written for Richard Terry, organist of Westminster Cathedral, and first performed on Easter Sunday of that year. For some reason it was afterwards forgotten and was only published in 1979, in an edition by the composer’s daughter, Imogen Holst. Holst’s love of Renaissance music is clear in this unaccompanied piece, particularly the way the male and female voices of the eight-part choir answer each other antiphonally. Like many of the composers in this programme, the German Max Reger was deeply patriotic and committed to his own country’s war effort. At the beginning of the war he began to compose a setting of the Latin Requiem, having in mind his countrymen who were dying in active service. After a false start, he began anew in 1915. Reger never got to hear the completed work, which was scored for solo voice, chorus and orchestra, since it was first performed in July 1916, a few months after his death. Reger’s Acht geistliche Lieder (Eight Sacred Songs) of 1914 show the influences of Bach and Brahms – the former in their technical mastery and the latter in their introspection and harmonic richness. From this set we sing Nachtlied, a setting of the 16th-century German Protestant theologian and hymn writer Petrus Herbert, calling upon God for protection during the night. Maurice Ravel was keen to join the French air force the moment the war began, but like Holst he was thwarted in his attempts to enlist, on account of his age and weak health. Instead, he became a truck driver stationed at the Verdun front. During the war Ravel composed one of his most popular works, the suite for solo piano Le tombeau de Couperin (Couperin’s Tomb), which is both an homage to the French Baroque composer François Couperin and a memorial to six friends of the composer who died in the conflict. Despite his strong antipathy towards the German aggression, Ravel refused to join the National League for the Defence of French Music, formed during the war, stating: “It would be dangerous for French composers to ignore systematically the works of their foreign colleagues, and thus form themselves into a sort of national coterie”. Trois beaux oiseaux du Paradis was written in December 1914 as one of three songs for unaccompanied choir which mark a rare foray into choral writing for Ravel. He wrote both the texts and music while waiting to join the army. The sombre central movement, which we sing this evening, is a melancholy reflection on the war for which Ravel was preparing, and it includes references to the three colours of the French flag as well as to a soldier who has left for war. The innocence of the flowing soprano solo contrasts sharply with the harsh realities Ravel would experience during active service. Shropshire-born Walford Davies studied at the Royal College of Music with Charles Villiers Stanford and Hubert Parry, later joining them as a member of the composition faculty. He did not serve in the war but was appointed the first director of music of the newly-created Royal Air Force in 1918. Davies’s Short Requiem, published in 1915, was composed “In sacred memory of all those who have fallen in the war”. The work favours texts from the scripture over the Latin mass, including his famous setting of Psalm 121 (“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills”) and a religious poem by the medieval monk John Lydgate. Since the Reformation, British composers had shied away from writing Requiem masses, as lavish musical settings of prayers for the dead were seen as too Catholic in sentiment. Davies can therefore be said to have written the first “British” Requiem; certainly many British composers were to copy his model, including Herbert Howells. Rowan Williams refers to this liturgical and musical shift as “possibly the biggest single change in the Christian culture [in England] in the 20th century”. Charles Villiers Stanford moved from London when the war began, fearful of the air-raids, and in the course of the conflict he learned of former composition pupils at the Royal College of Music injured and killed. For lo, I raise up was written in 1914, and its turbulent mood, dispelled only towards the end by a feeling of calm and awe, reflects the composer’s horror of what war might bring. Certainly, the text from Habbakuk is an apt description of the ravages of invasion and defeat. Thousands of miles away, in Russia, in just two weeks of January and February 1915, Sergei Rachmaninov composed his All-Night Vigil, from which we sing two movements this evening. Often referred to as the Vespers, this most important and popular of Rachmaninov’s religious works had its premiere in Moscow in March of that year to benefit the Russian war effort, and was so warmly received that it was repeated five times within a month. Rachmaninov was particularly enamoured of Nyne otpushchaeshi (the Nunc Dimittis, with the text in traditional church Slavonic, in contrast to Holst’s Latin) and expressed a desire to have it sung at his own funeral. Rachmaninov had already toured Russia the previous autumn to raise funds for Russian war relief, though he had conflicting feelings about this: having spent much time in Germany he admired advances in Teutonic art and science and did not join in the anti-German hysteria which swept Russia, showing the same ambivalence as Ravel to nationalistic fervour. Of all the composers in today’s programme, Ivor Gurney has perhaps the most tragic life story. Born in modest circumstances in Gloucester, he won a scholarship in 1911 to study at the Royal College of Music. Stanford is reputed to have told his fellow pupil and friend Herbert Howells that Gurney was potentially the best of his entire generation, but that he was unteachable. Gurney’s studies were interrupted in 1915 by his enlistment in the Gloucestershire Regiment. It was at the front, facing the misery of daily life and unable to find the peace and tools required for composition, that he turned to poetry for solace.

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